


The Light That Binds US

by This_Basic_Witch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Development, Double everything really, Double the POVs, Double the character development, Double the choices, Double the plot, Eventual Smut, F/M, Slow Burn, Two Inquistors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23161495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_Basic_Witch/pseuds/This_Basic_Witch
Summary: Bart Trevelyan thought he was done with The Chantry after he ran off to become a mercenary/professional bum. But after fours years of wondering Thedas he finds himself en route to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to beg his wealthy family for money (again).Arielle Lavellan is the First of her Dalish clan, but she seems more interested in digging around ruins and hoarding various junk human travellers have left behind than learning the duties of a Keeper.Neither are meant to be leaders, but that's exactly what they must become when they emerge from the rumble of The Conclave with the answer to Thedas’s salvation seared into their hands.
Relationships: Blackwall/Female Inquisitor, Blackwall/Female Lavellan, Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Female Lavellan/Solas, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast, Male Trevelyan/Female Adaar, Male Trevelyan/Original Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. The Kindness of Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I wrote and abandoned over a year ago, and it's hung around my neck like an albatross ever since. So when I was invited to join the Beyond The Veil Discord server, I decided it was time to finally get back on the horse. But my ultra-critical eye wouldn't let me write a new chapter until I re-edited what I've already written. So here we are, the new and improved (and maybe even completed this time) The Light That Binds Us!

A sharp wind sailed down the Frost Back Mountains, whipping the fine white snow across the burnt orange sky and right into the traveller’s face. As if walking up a hill in well-trodden slush, which was already on its way to turning to ice in the evening cold, wasn’t bad enough he had to stop every few paces to pull his damp woollen scarf back over his numb nose. Not to mention the rolled-up tent that batted against his thighs with every step, or the holes in his gloves. He certainly wasn’t the most dishevelled person on the road to the village of pilgrims, those apostates really did look like they’d spent the last few months hiding in hedges and ditches, but he definitely knew what he was going to spend that piece of his inheritance on: a whole new wardrobe. A horse would be nice too, or at least a donkey to carry all his things.

“Urgh, fuck the Maker,” he muttered at the crowd overflowing from the settlement’s only tavern/inn. He’d thought what with the Temple of Sacred Ashes becoming the prime tourist destination for any self-respecting Andrastian they would’ve built at least one more. But even if that had been the case he couldn’t have really expected to get a room now, could he? The road had been clogged up with mages, Templars, clergy, and Maker knows how many bureaucrats since he’d joined it that morning. Another night in the tent it was then. Well, there was nothing stopping him having a drink first, even if he had to stand elbow to elbow with his fellow travellers at least he’d have a break from the freezing cold.

As he entered he pulled down his scarf to breathe in that earthy smell of beer, jellied meat, ashes, and vague damp that always radiates from such places. Just as he thought, even the stairs leading up to the rooms had become extra seats for the barrage of patrons. He tried to slowly weave his way through them, but all his worldly possessions on his back made it impossible not to hit someone with it every couple of steps. He gave up muttering any apologies when it became apparent they were getting lost in the thick mist of a hundred conversations.

When he got close enough to take in the bustle around the bar itself he was relieved that at least the barman was keeping on top of things. The old man paced up and down the bar dishing out tankards with the same leisurely pace as he would serve the dozen or so villagers and pilgrims that came in on any other night. He didn’t even bat an eyelid when the towering form of a Qunari lent right across the bar to get his attention. The top of her curled horns scrapped against a low hanging beam, dislodging one of the cups than hung from it. But it wasn’t this that caught his eye, it was the golden tip of her left horn, which glinted in the candlelight as she freed herself from the timber. It couldn’t be, could it? What would _she_ be doing here? She was straightening up and reached for something in the pocket of her crimson coat. A coat she’d had made out of Deepstalker hide after they’d killed an entire nest of the blighters that time they’d tried to find some smugglers’ hideout on the Storm Coast because ‘I want to get at least something out of this wild fucking Nug chase’…

“Ataashi!” he waved across the crowd. She didn’t even glance his way. “Hey, Ataashi!”

He barged his way to her side. It better be her, otherwise he was going to look an utter fool.

The Qunari’s mouth, painted the same colour as her coat, fell open at the sight of him, before shooting up into a smirk.

“Huh, Bartholomew Trevelyan, Come to bum another drink off me after bailing on a job, have you?” Yes, it was Ataashi alright. “Well, tough luck, I’m all out,” she emptied a coin purse with frayed embroidery onto the counter. The barman slid her a tankard of beer.

“Aw come on, you’re still mad about that? I’d talked about going to Orlais for ages. And I said plenty of times in advance I don’t do giant spiders.”

“Doesn’t make you any less of an ass for fucking off before we got a replacement for you. Elera was right, it really should’ve been a six-man job,” she shuddered. “One bit me right on the ass, made it go numb for two days straight.”

It was this bit of oversharing, and the way she leant on the bar, that finally tipped Bart off to the fact she was at least a bit tipsy.

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to get a table. And no, you can’t join us.”

“Us? So the rest of the Dragons are here too,” Bart took a harder look around the room. Ataashi let out an exasperated sigh.

“Yeah, but we’re on a job so-”

An elven man in the corner of the room threw his tankard up with a cheer and pointed in their direction. The rest of the table had a similar reaction when they followed his gaze. Bart grinned and waved back.

“Not at the moment.”

The elf and his companions beckoned him over. Bart certainly hadn’t planned to run into them, but he couldn’t deny his luck as he started towards them. He may have hesitated to call anyone at that table friends, but catching up with them was just the kind of distraction he needed after the long day of travelling, and the even longer day to come.

“Hey, get back here!” Ataashi barrelled in front of him, nearly knocking a couple of unsuspecting patrons over. “Do you really think you can just strut in here and act like nothing happened?”

“Aww, aren’t you the tiniest bit pleased to see me?” Bart pouted mockingly back at her.

“Nope, not at all.”

“Even if I bought the next round?” he raised his voice so the others could hear.

There was a roar of approval at this.

“And no excuses about work in the morning,” he dug a coin pouch out of his trouser pocket. “How does that motto go again?” he asked the table.

“There’s no job that can’t be done with a hangover!” the mercenaries yelled in unison.

Their leader frowned at them, then at Bart, then back at them.

“Did I mention you that you look particularly…” 

“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence!” She swapped her beer for that pouch so fast half of it sloshed onto his coat. “We’re playing Wicked Grace, Balvik will deal you in.”

“But I’ve got nothing left to bet with,” he gestured at the pouch already retreating out of his sight as Ataashi went back to the bar.

“Oh I don’t know about that. You still got that pretty pair of daggers daddy bought you?” Balvik, a dwarf with a beard so dark and thick it was impossible to tell where it ended and his Carta tattoos began, teased as he dished out the cards.

“Hey! I’ll have you know I bought my babies with my own money. Well, Father’s money…but still, I’d sooner give away the boots on my feet than these,” He gave one of the ornate sheathed blades a squeeze and he slotted himself between Elera, a sour-faced elf of few words, and the wall.

“Pity, they’d make great letter openers,” the dwarf’s retort earned a bigger laugh, especially from his fellow axe wielder Elera.

“Hey, I’m buying you all drinks. Doesn’t that exclude me from betting for at least one round?”

There was a chorus of ‘no’s’.

“You don’t get out of it that easy Trevelyan, you could fill a house with the shit strapped to your back. You’ve got plenty to bet,” Faron, the elf who’d first spotted him, said.

“Yeah, don’t you remember the rules? You’ve got to pay to play, one way or another. Or you could just run back to Orlais,” a new boy (who hadn’t even been there when he left) who couldn’t be a day over sixteen cackled.

Looking around at all the other playfully mocking faces Bart couldn’t help but think this was some kind of impromptu revenge. So much for being welcomed back. Oh well, they’d forget about it after Ataashi came back with the drinks. In the meantime, he’d have to just be a good sport and roll with the punches.

“Alright, alright,” he comically rolled his eyes before fumbling with his backpack. He pulled out the first thing he found and slammed it on the table. “Ah ha: a cup! Made of finniest tin. Quite a prize.”

By the time Ataashi returned with a bottle of ‘the best wine I could get’ he’d lost that cup to the new brat, whose name was Darren (or something beginning with d).

“Wow, was that _really_ your last bit of cash? I almost feel bad about spending it all now,” Ataashi chuckled as he slapped his riding gloves onto the table for his latest bet.

“If I don’t win anything it is,” Bart tried to sound hopeful.

“Considering Elera is playing I don’t fancy your chances kid. Unless she’s willing to go easy on you,” Balvik muttered from behind his cards. Elera scoffed at this possibility.

“Huh, you’d think a rich boy would be better at taking care of his money. They usually hoard their fortune until it pours out of their cold dead hands and into the open palms of their children,” Ataashi pondered as she uncorked the bottle with no effort.

“‘poured out of their cold dead hands’, how poetic Tash,” Faron laughed.

“I’m quite the bard after a few drinks. After finishing this you might even get me singing,” she took a swing of the deep red liquid right out of her bottle.

“Well Tash, unlike those other noble pricks I had to travel halfway across the continent to get my share. So I’ve actually earned my inheritance, in a way,” this earned Bart a much bigger laugh than any of his deliberate jokes.

“Wait, aren’t your family in Ostwick?” She asked.

“All except my uncle, who just so happens to be overseeing my dear departed Grandmama’s estate. Trust my luck to start asking about what she left me right as he’s whisked away to The Conclave to help with all the bureaucracy that goes along with that. He insisted I meet him here to talk it over.”

“And that couldn’t be done through letters because…”

“Fuck should I know? Probably another of Mother’s ploys to bring me back into the light of the chantry. Though I can’t see why hanging around intense negotiations between magic-wielding madmen and sword-wielding fanatics will give me a spiritual awakening,” Bart tentatively took another sip of whatever was in his cup. Ataashi sniggered at his grimace and took the most casual swig from the wine bottle imaginable.

“Urgh, don’t. We all agreed we wouldn’t discuss politics here,” she leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “We travelled through The Hinterlands to get here. The place looks like The Blight hit it.”

“Well, at least they’ll be arguing instead of just trying to kill each other now. And if the rest of those bureaucrats and diplomats are anything like my uncle they’ll get something out of this Conclave. Maybe even a ceasefire,” Bart shrugged as if he hadn’t been thinking about it for most of the trek up to Haven. All he’d been able to conclude was that it was hard to be optimistic when you were neutral because you could see the fools on both sides.

“I don’t think our client is very hopeful. He’s really overpaid us to be his bodyguards (not that I’d ever tell him that though). He’s some noble who’s mage sympathiser. All three of his kids have ended up in the Circle. Well, they _were_ in The Circle.”

“Wow, all three. That’s…unfortunate,” Bart tried to focus on his cards, but the serious turn in conversation and the wine going rather suddenly to his head made that difficult.

A wealthy client? That would explain the particularly good spirits everyone was in. Bart wondered if it meant they’d been put up in rooms as well. Perhaps there was space for him on someone’s floor…

“I still think he’s planning on finding his apostate brats and making a run for it. Hide them in the depths of his big castle or something,” Elera muttered behind her cards.

“In that case, he’s not paid us _enough_ to deal with pissed off Templars. Maybe you were right to bail on us, Bart. We always get the shit end of the stick,” Balvik placed his hand on the table.

“I think everyone is dealing with the shit end right now. Civil war to the left of the mountains, mage rebellion to the right. And here we are, stuck in the middle with the bloody Chantry. After I get my money I’m sailing off to Antiva. All I’ll have to worry about there is sunburn and assassins.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Ataashi wiped some wine off her lips, smudging the rouge in the process. “Any chance you can take us along? I would kill for a holiday.”

“Ha! Haven’t I given you people enough already?” he felt his laugh die in his throat the moment he showed his losing hand. Elera raked her winnings over to her.

“Hmm, this is some really nice leather Trevelyan. They must be worth a lot” she smiled as she tried on what were no longer Bart’s riding gloves.

“Hey, Tash, you gonna give any of us a taste of that? I did get it for the whole table,” he asked meekly.

“Of course,” she handed the bottle over to Elera. “Winners first.”

Who needed the Maker to dish out divine punishment when there were people like these around?

White mist enveloped the rusty lock as the Dalish mage channelled an icy breath from The Fade through her fingers. The chest had been quite a find, hidden under a bed that hadn’t been slept in for a very long time. The rest of the cabin hadn’t turned up anything of note really, a few cups and pots, a wooden figure of Andraste missing an arm, plenty of bugs. Usually, she wasn’t so fussy about what she took, but now that she was travelling alone she had to be more selective. Her bag didn’t have unlimited space. Hopefully, the contents of this box were worth the discomfort of using ice magic when she was already cold.

She withdrew her hand from the crystals of ice that now spiked off the lock and picked her staff up off the dusty floor. The ice cracked and splintered as she struck at it repeatedly with the blunt end. Her strikes were hard and quick, conscious of the noise it created in the twilight, but it still took longer than she’d care to admit until the lock finally broke and clattered to the floor.

The chest groaned as she lifted the lid, the musty smell of disturbed dust flying up to greet her. Most of the space inside was taken up by something long and wrapped in a cloth. She unwrapped it to find a sword untainted by rust. In fact, she could see her smile reflected along the broad steel. The handle was made from a darker heavier metal with a sigil of a griffon engraved at the bottom. Whoever wielded it must’ve been strong, considering she could barely keep the tip pointing upward let alone swing it. She wondered what the warriors in her clan would make of it compared to their light ironbark blades. She’d assumed such a lonely cabin in the middle of the woods would’ve belonged to some…what did the Shemlin call them? Tree Cutters? Wood People? Or perhaps a Huntsman. But there was no axe or bow, just this sword. Important enough to preserve, but not important enough to take with them. She fished out the sparse contents of the rest of the chest for more clues. An amulet with a blood red stone in the centre of some engraved runes. She vaguely recognised a couple of symbols from similar jewellery worn by human travellers the clan had crossed paths with over the years. She knew they were for protection, whether this protection came from enchantment or just a promise of good fortune she couldn’t remember. Since humans hated magic so much it was probably the latter, she couldn’t feel any emanating from this one anyway. The only other things in the chest were letters written in a pretty cursive hand, a hand that she couldn’t read in the fading light. She sprung up and organised them into a pile on the table, then went to retrieve it from her pack by the entrance. A sharp gust of wind banged the door against the wall the moment she picked it up, rusty hinges screaming in surprise. She’d left it open to let the last of the natural light in since the windows were too clogged with grime and cobwebs to be of much use. She began to close it, but stopped, breath freezing in her throat.

A dark shape stood in the clearing between the cabin and the woods. A human shape.

She stared it down, silently willing it to move along. But it stayed right where it was, at the edge of the clearing. The snow had begun to fall again, obscuring her vision. But she could tell it was staring directly facing her.

Creators, where was her staff? On the bed, out of reach. The magic she could channel from her hands wouldn’t be able to reach the figure, at least not enough to hurt it. But maybe she didn’t need to…

The figure strode forward.

She threw the door wide open, lightning bursting out of her fingertips.

“Stay back!” she yelled, lowering her hand just enough for the electricity to strike the snow, causing it to steam and hiss. But the shape continued undeterred. “One more step and I’ll bring out my staff.”

The figure raised its hands. Could Templars dispel magic without a weapon as easily as a mage could cast it?

Not wanting to find out she let out one more intense bout of lightning. In the burst of blinding light, she leapt to the bed and grabbed her staff. She turned back, a kaleidoscope of colour crossing her vision, the moss green crystal on the end of her weapon pointed at the entrance. Painstakingly slowly everything came back into focus. Yet the figure still didn’t attack. It just kept its arms up.

“I stopped, just as you ordered. And you still got your weapon?” it stated in a raspy yet placid male voice.

The last sparks of lightning faded into the dusk sky.

“I have none of my own. I have no intention of harming you,” the voice elaborated when she failed to respond.

“Why didn’t you say that earlier?” she finally managed to get out.

“Your attacks made it difficult for me to communicate this to you.”

“I wasn’t attacking you, I was threatening you,” she squinted out at him. He appeared to be wearing some kind of robe with the hood up. He couldn’t be a mage, could he? Where was his staff?

“Hmm, understandable I suppose, being a lone apostate one must be cautious.”

“Are you alone as well?” 

“I am. And I assure you I found this place the same way I assume you did: sheer luck,” they shifted where they stood, lowering their arms and clenching and unclenching their fists to return the blood flow. “I’m very cold, may I come in? I promise you I’m not a Templar.”

“Well, I’ve figured out that much,” she brought the staff to her side but kept a firm grip on it. “Who are you?”

“Martin Amell. Formerly of the Ferelden Circle of Magi. And you are?”

“Arielle Lavellan,” she relaxed a little more at this news. He may be a world away from her, but they had one thing in common at least: magic.

“So, am I allowed in, or shall I keep walking? I’m sorry to press you on this matter, but as I said, it’s very cold out here.”

She gave him another once over and noticed his right sleeve had been singed by her magic.

“…You can stay until the snow stops falling,” She stood aside to let him through.

“Thank you,” he nodded and entered.

He sat down on the bed as Arielle pulled the lantern out of her pack. Thanks to her fire magic it took only a snap of her fingers to light it and the hut was bathed in a low orange light.

She could see now that Martin was sickly pale, a look emphasised by his thin lips and large dark eyes. She wondered if it was from being trapped in a Circle tower for so long. When he removed his hood, he adjusted a long greasy fringe so that it sat right on his eyebrows.

She didn’t realise she’d been staring until he gave her that polite smile.

“So…have you travelled far?” she awkwardly took a seat and placed her staff on the table.

“Yes, I was near Ostagar when I heard news of the Conclave.”

“Ah,” she nodded as if the name rang more than a small bell for her.

“What about you?”

“The Free Marches,” like her name she saw no reason not to tell the truth. People from all over Thedas had converged here for the Conclave.

“Is that where the rest of your clan is now?”

“How did you-”

“Your face tattoos.”

“Oh…of course,” blood rushed to her embarrassed face. Creators, she’d been travelling for weeks now, how could she still forget about her damn Vallaslin! Well, in her defence, most people gave away when it was visible by staring at her, and sometimes worse. “…Yes, they are.”

“Why are you going to The Conclave, especially alone?” he didn’t sound concerned, or even curious. Everything he’d said had been delivered with a flat, factual, calm. It may have made all his questions sound less like an interrogation, but it also made him completely unreadable.

“What happens at the Conclave has the potential to affect mages everywhere, including Dalish ones. Me and the Keeper are the only mages in our clan, and obviously she couldn’t come.”

“I see,” it was Martin’s turn to nod as if he understood her completely. “And I thought being thrust out of the safety of The Circle and back into the outside world was a lot. At least I was still raised in civilisation, albeit an island one. Not that the Dalish aren’t civilised. They’re just…different.”

“Well, I managed to get here on time, so I suppose we’re not completely hopeless out of the woods,” with no human trinkets or mysterious shadows to distract her anymore she became aware of the hunger grinding away at her stomach.

“And yet here you are. In the abandoned shack of a woodsman a good two miles or so from Haven.”

“Huh, I thought it was a woodsman,” she smiled at this confirmation as she rooted through her backpack. “I thought it would be faster to avoid the traffic on the roads by cutting through the forest, re-join further up. But I didn’t take the snow into account.”

She didn’t mention the tightness in her chest she’d experienced when the crowds along the road had thickened to a consistency where she couldn’t even stretch her arms out in front of her.

“Are you hungry? I have some bread, cheese, cured meats…,” She pulled out the greasy cloth with all these things inside. Martin appeared to think for a moment. “I also have bandages, and a poultice for that arm.”

Martin prodded the tear in his coat.

“I think I need a sewing needle more than bandages, the lightning barely touched my skin.”

“Ah, well, I suppose that’s one good thing about this weather: makes you put on extra padding,” she couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed at this. Whether it was the way he brushed off her power or that she couldn’t easily make amends for her hastiness in using it she didn’t know.

“Although I wouldn’t mind some cheese. Not wise to sleep on a completely empty stomach.”

“Of course,” she broke a sizable bit off the yellow and handed it to him.

They ate in silence, the wooden boards of the cabin creaking and groaning as the wind continued to fall below freezing. Arielle drew those letters closer to her, studying their words in the candlelight. She couldn’t decipher much from them. Like many Dalish elves, she’d been raised bilingual due to the patchy preservation of her mother tongue. But there wasn’t much use for writing in the clan, so any handwriting that was messier than the carefully inscribed books Deshanna worked so hard to preserve was a struggle to read. In fact, she couldn’t get past the first couple of lines (basic greetings and ‘I hope this finds you well’) without the urge to whisper every word under her breath, which she didn’t want to do in the presence of Martin. He probably thought her being here was ridiculous enough without learning she could barely read the common language or whatever humans called it. And she’d heard somewhere talking with your mouth full was very offensive to them.

She folded the papers up and stuffed them into the overflowing backpack.

“I doubt you would get much for those,” the mage piped up.

“For what?” she mumbled through a mouthful of crusty bread. So much for etiquette. 

“For the things you looted from this place, and a few others by the looks of things,” he nodded at the backpack.

“Looting?! I’m not looting…I’m collecting,” she quickly did the bag back up and nudged it closer to her.

“For what purpose?”

“What purpose? Uh…” she struggled to swallow the last of the dry bread down. “…research.” She finally said as if she’d only just learned the meaning of the word.

“Research?”

“Yes. It’s not like I run into humans every day.”

“I see,” again, he clearly did not. “Does that research include this gigantic sword at my feet?”

The candlelight stroked the blade on the floor, making its surface appear molten.

“Considering I can barely lift the thing, probably not,” but then she didn’t like the prospect of leaving such a weapon where anyone could find it.

“Then I think I’ll like to take it with me. I don’t know if I can make much use of it myself, but a Grey Warden-issued great sword would serve as a good deterrent against any bandits.”

“What would you need a sword for? You have your magic.”

“Oh, I don’t have any magic,” he started rubbing his forehead.

“But, you said you used to be with the Ferelden Circle…” the realisation of what he was saying hit her stomach before her brain.

“I was…” he pushed his fringe all the way back and rubbed his forehead. That paleness hadn’t been natural, he’d painted his face like she’d heard rich human ladies liked to do. Now he was taking it off, she could see a large scar. No, a brand. The more he rubbed the clearer the shape became, a symbol even she knew well: the sunburst of The Chantry. “…You have heard of the Tranquil, haven’t you?”

Yes, she had: ‘If you stray too close to the Shemlen’s villages, Da’lin, the Templars will lock you away in a big tower. And if you don’t do everything they say they’ll take away _all_ your magic and emotions!’ Of course, she never doubted the existence of the Templars. She’d heard human traders mutter about them when they threw sideways glances at her and Keeper Deshanna’s staffs. The Tranquil, on the other hand, an out of control rumour at best, a complete horror story at worst. And yet here was a mage with no staff sitting across from her with a face as blank as a mask and a voice as monotone as they come.

Her hands instinctively gripped her staff. Martin stared at her with those dark stones of eyes set into a white face.

“Hmm…it seems you have. I suppose even elves have a hard time understanding that means I have no desire to hurt you. Or do anything to you for that matter,” saying this in that flat voice of his made him sound more patronising than reassuring.

“…What did you do?” she finally asked.

“Excuse me?”

“What did you do to have _that_ done to you?” a sickly feeling clung to the back of her throat.

“I simply didn’t want to risk the Harrowing. And it really was a risk for me. From what I remember my magic was only strong when I was angry, which only served to make me even more enraged. Exactly the sort of frustration a demon would exploit.”

“But even if your magic was weak it was still _yours_. And your emotions-”

“You didn’t grow up in the Circle. You wouldn’t understand,” he didn’t sound angry (of course he didn’t), but there was a finality to his words that instantly silenced her. “…I don’t feel nothing exactly. I feel…a general sense of…well, tranquillity. Like the levity you feel when you realise you’ve been dreaming. Whatever imaginary monsters were chasing you were just that, figments of your mind. They cannot bother you anymore, let alone hurt you.”

“Except you’ll never dream again,” Arielle pulled her staff into her lap, running her hands along it absentmindedly. The action didn’t soothe her. Instead, she imagined that village on the other side of the woods. How many of the mages sleeping there tonight were like Martin? Did they accept their fate as gladly as he did? How many more Tranquil will be made if this Divine woman ruled in favour of the Templars?

“Why did you come here, Martin? What do you hope will happen at The Conclave?”

“I hope that order will be restored. That I can return to my work enchanting runes,” Martin shuffled closer to the other window.

“You want to go back to the people that did this to you, to a prison!”

He didn’t return her shocked stare.

“It wasn’t a prison to me, it was a sanctuary. I certainly didn’t leave it of my own accord, I was rather forcibly taken by some mages when things fell apart, something about not wanting to leave anyone behind. Well,” he wiped the grime away with his sleeve. “As you can see, that sentiment didn’t last.”

“Oh…I’m so sorry,” she looked back down at her staff.

“Don’t be. I should’ve seen it coming, mages have never really liked being around me. And ordinary people I’ve encountered who don’t know what to think. Hence the face paint, makes things easier,” he leaned closer to the glass, narrowing his eyes. “I think the snow has settled now.”

He rose and pulled his hood up.

“Wait,” her chair scraped against the wooden floor as she rose out of it. Martin stopped and waited for a follow up that didn’t seem to want to come out. Her stomach still clenched at the thought of sleeping in this cabin with him. But if she let him go now she knew her guilt wouldn’t let her sleep at all. “…You stay, I’ll go.”

“It’s quite alright, I-”

“I have a tent somewhere in here,” she hauled the heavy pack back onto her shoulders. “And the lantern.” She picked it up, causing the light to swirl around the room. “That is unless you don’t have any candles.”

“I have no concerns about the dark, and I’ve got a sword now,” he nudged the blade on the floor again.

“Good,” with her staff by her side she started towards the door. “Well...have a safe journey.”

Martin blocked her way. Even after everything, she couldn’t help taking a step back.

“If you do insist on going, take this,” he reached into the depths of his robes. “You’ll need it more than I will to blend in with the Circle mages.”

He handed her a tin about the size of her palm. She screwed it open to find a white paste with clear tracks from when he’d applied it to his face.

“Thank you,” she smiled.

They gave each other a final awkward nod, before she set out into the growing night.

“Fenedhis lasa,” she hissed as the wind bit into her exposed ears. As she wrestled with her hood she couldn’t help but look back at the cabin, but the door had already been shut.


	2. Hungover In Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bart and Ari finally meet, but they have a much bigger, hole-shaped problem, to worry about before they can start the introductions.

Bart felt like his brain had been pulled out of his skull, kicked around in the dirt by some bratty children, and then shoved right back in. Maker, just how strong was that liquid fire Ataashi gave him? He hadn’t got blackout drunk since he woke up in Kirkwall tied to a post in his small clothes by the docks. He never did find out how he got there. Considering he was six feet off the ground he suspected Qunari were involved.

He had definitely been manhandled by at least one Qunari this time though. One of his last memories was Ataashi slinging him over her shoulder and carrying him upstairs to a chorus of laughter and lewd comments from the rest of the tavern. He’d struggled and protested at first, but was lulled into submission by the revelation of how nice and cool her leather coat felt against his cheek, and that he had the perfect view of that shapely arse of hers, even if it was obscured by the coat… Oh, for Andraste’s sake! He thought he was over that shit. It got far too awkward last time. But he’d woken up on the floor of her room, with his bedroll thrown on top of him and the rest of his things at his feet, not in her bed. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed at that.

But it wasn’t wood he felt against his face now: it was rough stone. And the various dank but homely smells of the tavern had been replaced with that of rust and damp straw. He slowly opened his eyes and was greeted by a sea of grey. With another groan, he went to rub them, but something cold and heavy held his wrists in place behind his back. His eyes widened as he strained against the shackles, the clinking of metal bouncing off the walls of the dungeon that came into focus around him.

“What the fuck?” he croaked, a lump sticking painfully to his throat. His feet scraped against the floor as he tried to pull himself up, but without the use of his arms he only succeeded in rubbing his cheek against a broken stone tile.

In the dull torchlight, he could see a couple of shadows on either side of the door: guards.

“Oh, hello. I don’t suppose either of you could tell me what I’m doing here,” his smile distorted into a grimace as the pain from his scratched face, stiff limbs, and clogged throat melted together. Neither of them even moved, let alone spoke. “Yes, I know it’s hard to believe, but I really have no idea what I did.”

Still nothing.

He racked his scrambled brain for any clues for what on earth led him from the tavern to here. But he couldn’t even remember if Ataashi was still in bed or had already left when he’d woken up. Everything was black. Except for one hazy image of a woman…A woman bathed in the brightest light he’d ever seen, reaching out to him. And he’d been running. Running towards that outstretched palm…

No, he must’ve just dreamt it. It certainly made all the sense of a fever dream, and definitely didn’t explain any of this. Had he drunk the whole damn bar last night? What was wrong with him, how could he be this clueless?

A new pain suddenly took hold of him: an intense burning sensation in his right hand.

“Argh, what the fuck?!” he repeated with more feeling as he twisted his body in an attempt to see what in the Maker’s damn name was causing it.

A groan a few feet away from him answered his question.

“Hello?” He strained his neck to find the source. The new position he’d required from all the wriggling around meant he could now just make out his inmate kneeling directly to his left. They groaned again, this time more pained as their shackles rattled. He couldn’t make out much from the low torchlight and his awkward position, but he could tell they were small and lithe, with long blonde hair obscuring their face.

The strange wound in his hand flared up again, but this time it was accompanied by a sound like damp wood being thrown on a fire. It kind of sounded like…magic.

The other prisoner struggled the way he had a minute ago, muttering something he couldn’t understand under fearful breath.

“I’ve tried that already. And don’t bother asking the guards anything either. I think they’re under orders not to talk,” he looked back up at the guards. “Isn’t that right, lads?” The guards stared back at the two prisoners. It was impossible to read their expressions from the floor, but when one stepped over to whisper to the other Bart thought he could detect fear in his hushed voice.

Another burst of agony from his hand. It was enough to rip a full scream from him this time. The other prisoner cried out too, twisting around on the floor. That’s when their hands finally came into his view. One of them was glowing bright green!

“Wha-”

The door slammed. He looked up to see one of the guards was gone.

“He better be getting a bloody healer,” Bart hissed at his remaining partner.

“Yes, a healer, please” his fellow inmate agreed still staring at the floor. Their voice was soft and feminine. So they were a woman, a rather young woman at that.

“Ah, so you do talk. Care to tell me what in the fucking Maker’s name is going on with your hand?”

She turned her head and stared back at him. She was indeed young, but also eerily pale.

“ _It’s glowing green_!” Bart emphasized. Her sea-green eyes widened as her gaze fell on his own hands.

“So is-”

The door swung open again. Two women strode in, one in armour, the other a cloak. The cloaked one motioned at one of the guards to keep the door open, letting more light in, as the armoured one made a beeline for Bart.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” she glowered in a harsh Nevarran accent as she violently pulled him up into a kneeling position.

“Uhhh…” was all he managed as he blinked at her fierce dark eyes only a few inches from his own. Even as his head recovered from the sudden rush of blood he didn’t attempt to say anything more. Whoever this woman was she was very pissed off about whatever she thought he’d done. So acting confused would probably only infuriate her further. And he couldn’t argue his case until he learned what he was actually being accused of. This decision was solidified when his gaze shifted to the eye insignia on her chest plate. A Seeker! He really had stumbled into some deep shit.

With a look of disgust, she let him go and stepped over to the girl, who met her smouldering gaze as she too was yanked up from the floor. In the extra light, Bart noticed the prisoner’s pointed ears peeking out through her hair. Not that he needed to see them to know she was an elf, she gave the same contemptuous pout he’d seen her kind reserve for hostile humans the world over. Even if hers came through trembling lips.

“The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. _Except for you two_ ,” the Seeker told her. This immediately shattered the elven girl’s weak front.

“What?” she gasped.

He bit back asking the same question. ‘You two’, so she thought they were accomplices. If he could prove he’d never seen this girl before in his life that might just be enough to prove his innocence. And the less he knew the easier that would be.

“You heard me,” the Seeker growled.

“I don’t know anything! I swear,” the elf girl vehemently shook her head.

“Then explain this,” the Seeker went to pull the elf’s glowing hand forward, but was prevented by the shackles. After a couple more fruitless tugs she made a disgusted noise and beckoned the guards forward.

“I told you to chain them with their hands in front!”

“Sorry, Seeker Pentaghast,” the one now kneeling before Bart muttered as he pulled out his keys.

The endless two minutes of the guard rearranging his shackles were some of the most awkward he’d ever experienced. But framed within the tensest situation he’d ever been in somehow made it utterly hilarious. Bart's shoulders shuddered with the sudden if fleeting relief of tension. His giggles squeezed through his pursed lips in one long snort just as his shackles clicked into their position.

The Seeker’s ire instantly turned back to him.

“Perhaps _you_ can enlighten us,” she grabbed his right hand and held it up to his face. A long cut glowed along his palm, from the base of his index finger down to his wrist, sparks of green light jumping from it like embers from a bonfire. Bart yelled, yanking it out of her grip.

“What the fuck?!?” He waved his hand violently up and down like something disgustingly wet had just stuck to it. “Is-is this some kind of…magic disease?”

“Don’t mock us,” Seeker Pentaghast growled.

“I’m not, I have no fucking clue what this is. That elf girl has one just like it. Did I catch it from her?” he knew he sounded utterly insane? Since when was magic contagious? But right then, anything would’ve been plausible to him.

“You’re lying!” The Seeker moved to strike him. But a gloved hand caught hers mid-air.

“We need him, Cassandra,” the cloaked woman said in a soft Orlesian voice. The Seeker didn't seem taken aback at how swiftly and silently she'd moved, nor angry at her intervention. She just let her hand fall to her side as she took a step back with a frustrated but resigned sigh.

“Do either of you remember what happened, before all this?” The cloaked woman asked the prisoners, crouching down in the space between them, where she could get a clear view of both of them, and them of her. Her face was delicate, the candlelight illuminating its round features in a rosy glow, but it failed to thaw the coldness in her eyes. Bart had seen plenty of faces like hers in the Chantry, Sisters that wielded kindness like a knife. Underneath it all, she was just as furious as her counterpart.

“I can’t even remember going to the Conclave,” he answered truthfully, well aware that it sounded like he was playing dumb now, but he didn’t have many other options.

“Bullshit!” Seeker Pentaghast muttered.

The cloaked woman ignored her, turning back the elven girl. “What about you?”

The girl was gazing at her left hand, almost entranced. She tentatively ran the fingers on her right over the mark. Bart’s own marked hand clenched at the movement. But she didn’t react with any pain.

“...I have no idea how I got this. I’ve never seen anything like-”

Green lightning burst from her palm with that magical fizzing noise again.

“Urgh, you fucking idiot!” he hissed at her through gritted teeth, his shackles cutting into his chest as he cradled his glowing fist.

“Does yours hurt more from doing that?” she hit back, nodding at his hand.

“…I don’t think so,” Bart breathed deeply as the fire died down.

“Then it’s not aggravated by physical contact. The pains have been coming in pulses, the last just so happened to coalesce with my touch. And no, there’s no such thing as a 'magic disease',” she explained like he was a troublesome idiot child she hadn’t been paid nearly enough to tutor.

“Well, you clearly know more about this than I do. What’s causing these pulses then?” Bart glared at her.

“We know the answer to that at least,” the cloaked woman started to help the elf to her feet. “I need to get to the forward camp. Cassandra, take them to the rift.”

“Leliana!” Seeker Pentaghast stepped toward her.

“This isn’t going anywhere, Cassandra. And if Solas is right about those marks we need them out there,” she gestured upwards.

“…You’re right. The questions can wait,” she sighed and turned back to Bart and clamped her hands down on his shoulders. “Get up.” She hoisted him to his feet, which almost collapsed under him from the sudden rush of pins and needles.

“I still have absolutely no idea what happened, you know,” he muttered as he and his inmate were led out of the cell and up a dark staircase, the two guards close behind. He expected another contemptuous look or disgusted noise from Seeker Pentaghast. But instead, all he got was a grim look. “It…will be easier to show you.”

Arielle braced herself to be blinded by the sun as she was led out into open. But looking up she couldn’t tell if it was day or night. The sky was being choked by storm clouds the colour of ash. No sun, no moon, and absolutely no stars. The only light in the sky came from what she assumed was what that cloaked woman, Leliana, had called the rift. That name did not do it justice. It was a gaping wound.

“Oh…oh Maker, what is that?” the man in chains murmured next to her, voice quivering like a newborn halla.

“We’ve been calling it the Breach. It’s a tear in the veil that gets larger with every passing hour,” Seeker Pentaghast explained.

“I thought you called it the rift,” Arielle remarked.

“No, Leliana was referring to a smaller tear. Several have been created, but the Breach is the first and the largest.”

“I don’t give a fuck what it’s called! What is it, and how _the fuck_ did it get there?” the man snapped.

“Well, if it’s a tear in the veil, then what we’re looking at right now must be…The Fade,” Arielle had no idea how she could think straight staring at an actual hole in the sky. But her mind was already hard at work building a wall of questions and theories to block out the paralysing fear that seemed to have taken over her fellow prisoner.

“ _That’s_ the Fade? I think I’d remember dreaming about a bright green blightscape,” the other prisoner’s way of coping with shock seemed to be to make smart arse comments. The Seeker shot them both an impatient glare.

“Yes, it’s an open door into the world of demons that could eventually swallow the world. All we know about it was that it was caused by an explosion at the Conclave and that the marks on your hands are linked to it somehow.”

“An explosion? What kind of-”

A deep rumble rolled across the sky as The Breach widened as if tugged on either side by invisible hands. Both marks hissed in response as Ari gritted her teeth against another pulse of pain, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

“Well, that raises more questions than it answers,” the male prisoner breathed sharply when their marks calmed down.

“Maybe so, but Leliana is right, the only one that matters right now is whether your marks can help or not,” Seeker Pentaghast beckoned them both forward in a way that suggested she’d drag them forward if they didn’t follow.

“How can a magical wound fix this?” Ari hurried after her as she descended the hill down to the village.

“It may be much more than that. If the rifts are a door-”

“Then they need a key!”

The Seeker narrowed her eyes at this interruption.

“That is what we theorise.”

“But I don’t know how I got it, let alone how to use it.”

“That may be so. But whether you are responsible for all this or not…” Seeker Pentaghast faulted before a moment, seeming to take a moment to fully accept what she was about to say next: “you are our only hope.”

“Fantastic, then you don’t need me.”

Seeker Pentaghast spun around and marched over to the where the man had stopped a few feet behind Ari.

“What was that?” she growled.

“Well, you don’t need two keys, do you? So I can just go back to my cell where it’s nice and safe. You know, in reserve,” the prisoner was already starting to walk back, a sheepish smile on his face.

“In reserve?” Ari questioned.

“You heard the Seeker, that Breach thing has let demons in. Who knows how many are wandering around out there waiting to do Maker knows what to us mortals and…”

The Seeker grabbed his the chain between his shackled hands and yanked him forward.

“The Most Holy is dead!” her voice cracked a little at these words, causing her to close her eyes for a second and take a deep breath. “Rage is the only thing preventing the people of Haven from falling into despair. Rage that will be aimed right at you two. As our only suspects, they have already decided your guilt.”

“All the more reason to keep me away from them,” the man retorted.

By now they’d reached the foot of the hill and were standing on the outskirts of the village proper. The snow that had fallen the night before had been trampled into sludge by the villagers and stragglers to the Conclave, who shot between the tiny wooden houses frantically carrying whatever could fit in their arms. Arielle couldn’t tell which were scrambling to establish a frontline against the chaos and which were getting ready to flee. But the argument that had ensued between the Seeker and her prisoner had already alerted some of them to their presence. They clumped together on the side of the path, whispering to one another while glaring at them with a mix of fear and fury that Ari had seen enough times in her travels to know it was time to run. But this time there were no woods to retreat to, only the growing mob before her, and the sharp sword of the Seeker behind her. And that Leliana woman was no longer there to keep her temper under control. She reached for her staff but was harshly reminded by the rattle of her chains that it was missing.

“…I have to agree with him,” she piped up. The Seeker’s increasingly impatient gaze only increased her anxiety, but she forced the rest of her words out. “We have an entire village of people who want to see us punished, and Creators knows demons between us. And the only one with a weapon is you.”

“Well, at least one of you is half sane,” The man looked as if he instantly regret saying this, but the Seeker’s ire seemed to have run out of fuel to burn, as her only reaction to this was a frustrated sigh.

“I see your concerns, but you are still my prisoners. I cannot give you weapons. However, I assure you I am capable of protecting you both; the villagers will not lay a hand on you with me at your side.”

Both prisoners flinched as she drew her blade. But she only held it at her side, still but waiting. The half of the crowd dispersed at this action, while the rest shrunk back to create a path for the trio to pass through.

“I really don’t have a choice in this, do I?” The man finally resigned.

“None of us do,” Seeker Pentaghast said mournfully as she beckoned them forward. “All I can promise is there will be a trial after this. And helping us seal the Breach may go a long way towards your judgement.”

“If we survive,” the male prisoner muttered at the same time Arielle thought it.


End file.
